Inoutbox
The walls are stained by my fingers,
raw from trying to scratch them away,
but they’re unharmed and unmarked
on the random spots, here and there,
where I broke my knuckles
thinking I could knock them down,
and the lies and truths that passed me by,
and the things I couldn’t be bothered with,
were opportunities gone a-begging,
moving lips, I couldn’t hear a thing
and I don’t know what they said.
I don’t remember the things you told me
but I do remember you telling me,
and I believe the worst of it
and I don’t care for the rest,
I might have loved the design, though,
and I know the machine was ruined
before the engineers and the technicians
even knew that it existed.
The TV is on for now,
a million faces and a million voices
and a million unthinkable miseries,
they knock on the screen from inside
and they cannot reach me,
it’s all white noise, though, anyway,
unless I apply an ear well enough
to pick out a particular sound or two
and make of it whatever I will.
I’m not quite sure of what it was
that you knocked into my head,
but I wish to God I could only know
half of what you knocked out of it.
7th February 2019
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2019
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